rachel
by aargentt
Summary: you are rachel, the queen of every heart but his. / fi winter exchange; for rachel (supernovas)


**notes:** for the fanfiction imagination forum's "a very frosty winter exchange"; written for rachel (supernovas). with the prompts _dancing in the rain, "you're just as sane as i am", cotton candy, & lemon ice tea_, along with the pairings _percyrachel_ and _rachelnico_.

after much thought i decided upon one-sided rachelpercy and rachelnico in the end. this is also au, starting at the end of the battle in nyc. nothing that happens in the heroes of olympus applies, as i never read the series. if anything is unclear, such as how rachel came to be in the condition she's in — it's meant to be that way. the reader is meant to infer. if it really others you, pm me to get a detailed response, haha. enjoy! x

**disclaimed.**

* * *

**: rachel :**

the crevices of your mind fill with sorrow as you overlook the city of which you are queen, and everything seems wholly uninteresting, unimportant, and entirely recklessly beautiful. you are one with the skies that have never befriended you.  
you are rachel, the queen of every heart but his.

* * *

_part i. fallen_

* * *

it is a truth unparalleled that you love dancing in the rain. anyone who [presumes] knows you believes that it's due to your rebellion against your affluent nature; saving the world one raindrop at a time. showering in the rain must help the environment, they'll say sagely.

these days, of course, two things are universally accepted against the two previous facts presented. you no longer dance in the rain: each drop does not signify a wish, each drip does not echo in your head forever and seven days. and of course, no one truly knows you. not since _him_.

today you would rather look out at the city from your small window, overlooking the city as though you're its' assigned protector, and wonder about the purpose of rain. the world is dark and bitter and cruel enough without freezing showers: not to mention scalding coffee that burns your tongue every morning, memories of furious passion emanating from lovesick pores, or the half-smiles your face is presenting every morning.

you survey the harsh clouds and assess their oncoming downpour. you haven't checked the weather for years. once upon a time you'd base your day around the weather — now all your days are sparkless and dull, and weather predictions from the gut are more to make sure the subway is running to get you to work than to have a beautiful, cheery day.

you are rachel elizabeth dare, a fallen queen of hearts, only you were never the queen of _his_ heart.

* * *

_part ii. fading_

* * *

you have him memorized. every smile masking sadness, every look of bare desire, every crinkle of a frustrated brow. his eyes mar thousands upon thousands of heavy papers in water-colored glory. you want to rid yourself of those sketchbooks, where you'd sit for hours on end only practicing his eyes (ironically enough you did perfect them once you and he fell _out of touch_) but a larger part of you knows you can't rid yourself of the memories, and yet another, even larger part of you cannot summon enough pain and heartbreak to the surface of your heart to break it yet again.

you haven't seen his eyes in forever. even seeing the dawn of a new love within the mirror won't dull the love in your own.

now you've got scrapbooks and yearbooks and photo albums: every few months you feel an urge to relive your pain, like sisyphus, but willingly. [and you've successfully done so, just by remembering a greek _myth_ (even if you know better than to call it so)] so you open an album or two and watch the pictures, some faded and other still fresh, with their bright colors and happiness filling every little detail. you see his smile and his frown and you see laughter and hugs and you see a small sprinkling of kisses, too.

(but they're only in your head)

you see the sharing of pink cotton candy, and the pain of the family you've never had but felt the loss of all the same, and the aftermath filled with loving hugs. you see sips of lemon ice tea and feel drawn to this beautiful thing that you once called yours. you see rallies, where you stand tall and proud and he sinks in the shadows with a blush, but a teasing expression of some kind of appreciation. you see tears in your eyes masked by a shade of happiness. you see an instant withdrawal from the lives of _everyone_, if you're going to be honest, because now you're living in another city with another life and another population and whole 'nother_ language_ but still the memories haunt you.

you feel your chest ache dully, and it's like continuously rubbing alcohol into a new cut. sometimes you wish you'd taken the oath. you might have been lonely, but at least it would be a loneliness that surrounded you with so much more than it was.

and then you shut the album with a dark scowl marring your faded beauty: your solitude is preferred to a life of eternal pining after someone who could never see your love, never recognize it, never care for it. at least now you're depressed and alone, surrounded by fading memories rather than pretenses of friends.

here in the distant dusk lies an old gem, a relic forgotten by all, and it is scarred.

* * *

_part iii. savior_

* * *

two weeks ago you watched out your window in the early hours of the morning, before dawn, when the city was drowsy but not asleep [it never is, really]. two weeks ago you saw the sun rise and the moon fade, the sky welcoming the beautiful vision with open arms: along with a frigid breeze sweeping over the horizon. two weeks ago you saw october arrive.

two weeks later you're sure you'll watch out your window again, to see the sun fade in favor of the smaller, younger stars, and the moon which the sun graces with its light out of utter love for the humanity it rules over. two weeks later you're sure you'll watch the city come alive in the not-so-dark-dark and the artificial lights come on, blaring at everything. two weeks later you're sure you'll see october fade.

this isn't another time of day or night. it's that margin of seconds where everything is peaceful and silent yet not at all: your red hair is filled with a cackle of electricity and your eyes spark wildly, wishing to see all that you can before your reckless seconds are over and you return to the dull existence you've faded into. living in the shadows has always been dreary but tonight it comes too close to being _dead_._  
_

you know exactly how and why that happened, though.

between the two weeks where you saw october arrive and the two weeks when you'll see october fade is that one day, right in the middle of the month — the sixteenth, specifically — you saw a face. if you hadn't abandoned such childish theories years ago, you would have said it _was_ death. he was pale, a stark contrast against the rest of his dark features. he was skin and bones, mostly. he only appeared for an instant in the distant moonlight before fading away again. perhaps for the best.

but it was nico di angelo and now you're terrified.

* * *

_part iv. tragic_

* * *

once upon a time there was a girl with fiery red hair and a pale boy who despised her.

she was everything he was not: the dawn, the beauty, the beloved. he was everything she was not: the dusk, the hidden, the overshadowed. they clashed in all ways but one — time had not been friendly for either of them, and in the pale moonlight she could see his eyes gleam. her own whispered secrets at him, those she didn't want either of them to know. his fingers threaded in her deep red hair, faded like the rest of her, and he filled her with the kind of warmth that could possibly even make her feel whole again.

he whispered mindless words to her in the dead of night, of which he was the king and she was his soul, deep inside. she called him insane in a voice that would scare away kronos in tartarus.

"you're just as sane as i am"  
he murmured back.

here was a love born of forgotten pages in a torn-up memoir; here was a love born of stolen images taken by an old camera; here was a love born of heartbreak, of regret, of shadows, of streetlamps, of mornings, of opposites, of silver linings, of hatred, and of emptiness.

they were never quite the same, but had never been quite so different; it was the tragedy that prompted their fatalities and it was this fate that prompted _them_. beauty had never seemed so deep.

* * *

**notes:** this was a _terrible_ place to end but BOO IDC. I hope you enjoyed and please leave a review xo

rachel, I do hope you enjoyed this because you are something special and we haven't really been talking lately and we've had a rocky past and i know dedicating something to you can't fix it but i honestly love you and i hope you had an amazing winter (mine is ongoing ahaha).


End file.
